stand in front of their mounts and keep the bridle-reins in their
hands.

They could not yet see the head of the herd; but above the boulders
they saw a cloud of dust rising. This dust rolled down the canyon
and reached the observers first. Then appeared several horsemen
riding at a sharp canter. The range horse almost never trots.

Rhoda had to shout to make her voice heard by her friends above the
clatter of hoofs:

"Some of those are our men; others belong to the Long Bow,
Gridiron, and Bar One outfits. They are leading the herd and will
spread out at the mouth of the canyon and keep the flanks of the
mob from drifting."

"Oh! The ponies!" shrieked Bess suddenly.

Out of the rolling dust cloud below them were thrust the bobbing
heads, shaking manes, and plunging forefeet of the leaders of the
herd. Black horses, red horses, gray, white, all shades of roan,
pinto, and the coveted buckskin color, which always sells well in
the West.

The tossing manes became like the surf of an angry sea. The thunder
of hoofs was all but deafening. Above this noise sounded the shrill
whistling of the male horses and the answering neighs of the
half-mad herd.

There was reason for clinging to the bridles of the saddled ponies